


Sects Ed

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M, Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-19
Updated: 1999-10-19
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A misunderstanding winds up with steamy concequenses.





	Sects Ed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Sects Ed

## Sects Ed

by Voyagerbabe

Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

Author's disclaimer:   
There once was a company in Toronto,   
Who made the world's best TV show.   
People, wolves, places, and plot,   
All the rights they have got,   
But here I can do what I want to!

Author's notes: This is originally a birthday present for TraceCat, a list sib on I am writing birthday presents for any willing member of that list, fulfilling their deepest Due South self-insertation fantasies. In Trace's case, she wanted hot sex with Fraser AND Turnbull, so here it is! Happy birthday, Trace!

* * *

"Are you sure?" 

Morosely, Constable Renfield Turnbull nodded at his superior, his eyes looking like a homeless Basset hound in a pet store window. "Yes, sir. I asked three times for confirmation. Frankly, I couldn't believe it myself. 

Blushing, Constable Benton Fraser tugged at his collar, which had lately begun to feel a good bit tighter than he was accustomed to. "It is a somewhat...unusual request." 

Turnbull nodded. "She'll be here in five minutes." He paused, then looked nervously towards the door, as if he expected Dr. Tracy Catt to come bursting through any moment, armed and ready for her nefarious purposes. "Sir, can they really make us...?" 

Fraser considered this for a moment. "I'm not entirely sure if they could bring us to Court Martial -" 

"Court Martial!" The younger Mountie looked nearly ready to faint. 

"But it would be a definite disobedience of orders, and you did say that the Commissioner described this as 'vital to Canadian interests'." 

"Yes sir." Turnbull's eyes were fixated on his boots. He was clearly unable to understand how his superior could be this pragmatic about something so dire. "He did say that. Apparently, Dr. Catt is the foremost expert in her field, and it is to be an honor to be the officers selected to assist her." 

Despite his outward calm, it was all Fraser could do not to run and lock himself in his father's office. Only the thought of disgracing Canada and the uniform by being found hiding in a coat closet stopped him, and even then, not by much. "Well then, Constable, I suggest that we find some way to...comply with these orders." 

"Sir!" 

If he were anywhere near as white as Turnbull, Fraser knew he must look quite near complete collapse himself. It wouldn't surprise him. This was quite simply, the most outrageous order he had ever received, or even heard of for that matter. He had been asked, in the course of his career, to do many things. To track men into raging blizzards, to climb sheer ice cliffs, to pursue criminals who thought as little of killing a man as most people thought of squashing an ant. While he supposed this current order was no more outrageous than ordering a man to risk his life, it was certainly...different. 

"Turnbull, we are officers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We are supposed to Maintain The Right. Except in a case of clear moral deviance, the right is whatever our superior officers say the right is. In this case, the right requires that we serve our country and the Queen in an admittedly unorthodox manner, but one which is not impossible." He paused. "For me, at least. Are you physically..." His voice trailed off, a mortified blush lighting his handsome features. 

"I believe I am capable, sir." 

"Good." 

Two pairs of riding boots shuffled slightly on the carpet, their occupants trying to make the most of this situation, to treat it like just another assignment. Finally, Turnbull spoke again, his voice deep with resignation. "The Queen's bedroom, sir?" 

"It would seem most appropriate." 

Turnbull sighed. "I had thought so." 

*** 

Dr. Tracy Catt struggled up the steps of the consulate, trying to balance the two briefcases she was carrying along with an armload of papers and an umbrella that she had turned out not to need, as the threatening gray skies of morning had cleared. She teetered slightly on her high-heeled shoes as she attempted to hook the umbrella more securely. That teeter quickly turned into a wobble, which again quickly transformed into an all-out fall. 

She let out a tiny squeak as she began to pitch forward, but her body never made contact with the hard stone of the consulate steps or the dark wood of the door. Instead, she found her face pressed up against something very solid and red, but not at all unpleasant, with a pair of arms wrapped beneath her own. The papers wafted down, but she didn't really care. At least she'd been spared a bump on the head by this observant individual, who must have seen her coming up the stairs. 

Gathering her feet beneath her again, she stood, patting her hair back into place. "Thank you very much, Constable..." 

Constable Gorgeous. Dr. Catt shook her head harshly, but he was still there. No, it apparently wasn't a hallucination, unless one could hallucinate from a bad mango or bad tea, the two items which had constituted her breakfast. The Mountie was still there in the doorway, looking at her with wide, almost frightened eyes that she attributed to her near-miss on the doorway. 

Well, she attributed the expression to the near-miss. She attributed the eyes themselves to the best damn genetic sequence she had ever been privileged to encounter. He was the first man she had ever seen that was best described as truly beautiful. Not precisely handsome, for though he exuded masculinity, handsome denoted a more rugged appearance than this man's unspoiled features, which looked as though they had been preserved under glass in a museum, awaiting this moment. Not pretty, either, like so many of the teen heartthrobs that she saw on television these days. Simply, classically, beautiful. 

His hair was so dark as to be almost coal black, but where the morning sunlight intruded beneath the brim of his Stetson, she could see it accenting highlights which proved it to be a rich brown. The skin that was molded over the bone structure that Praxatilles would have died for was pale and smooth, rich and sweet, like good vanilla ice cream. The kind made with real cream. Blue eyes were somehow simultaneously light as the sky above them and richly deep as an arctic ocean. She felt her knees beginning to weaken. 

As her eyes moved downward, the aforementioned joints became the texture of half-set jello. His body filled out the red serge of his tunic like a department store mannequin, his posture flawless, shoulders broad, and the Sam Browne cinched around a waist that was almost impossibly narrow. Beneath the loose camouflage of his jodhpurs, his legs appeared strongly muscled and lean, the tightly laced boots revealing strong, shapely calves. Oh, yes, she could live with this assignment. 

"Dr. Catt?" His rich baritone snapped her back to attention, and she looked sheepishly back to his eyes, realizing she had been caught gawking. "Constable Fraser. I've been instructed to assist you with your research." 

She smiled and bent to gather her things, but he was there before she could, scooping the dropped papers into his arms. Nodding her thanks, she tried to retrieve some semblance of a professional demeanor. "Yes, yes, I've been told that you and a Constable Turnbull will be helping me complete my research. I've established my parameters for most of the Americas, and I was thrilled when I was told that I didn't have to actually GO to Canada to collect my data. I'm a little tired of traveling, to be honest." 

"I...I can certainly understand that." He sounded flustered, and she wondered if there was something going on here that she didn't know about, or if he was just nervous about helping a prominent anthropologist. 

With what she hoped was a calming smile, she shrugged. "It shouldn't take too long. I was told that between you and Constable Turnbull, I have an excellent storehouse of information regarding Canadian practices. He's urban, and I've been informed that you have a most colorful rural and native background." 

A bright blush appeared on his cheeks. "I suppose so, yes, ma'am." 

Collecting herself and her hormones, she stepped past him into the Consulate. "Good, then let's get to work. Where can I find Constable Turnbull?" 

"He's waiting in the Queen's bedroom, ma'am. We believed that would be the most apropos location, but if you would like to change...?" 

"No, that will do." She took a handful of papers from Fraser, tucking them back into order as they began to make their way up the stairs. "Of course, I would like to make this all as efficient as possible. If you and Constable Turnbull would be willing to do it at the same time, it would allow me to get this over with much quicker." 

The footsteps on the stairs behind her stopped abruptly. "At...at...the same time?" His voice sounded strangled, and she frowned. My goodness, but he was jumpy. 

Catt laughed. "Well it's not as if the procedure is any different for one of you than for the other. I'll initiate, and then you give the appropriate responses, within your own cultural backgrounds. I can just as easily collect the data from two as from one, and it really cuts the time involved in half. I have another appointment tonight with a Voodoo priest, and I'm sorry if it sounds selfish, but I'd like to get a little sleep before that." 

"I...can understand how your line of work could be tiring, yes." He cleared his throat, then she heard his footsteps resume. Good. Whatever the problem was, he seemed to have gotten past it. 

Pleased, she continued to explain things to him. "If you need some time to get ready, I'll be happy to wait. And please don't feel embarrassed or inhibited about anything that you think might seem perhaps quaint or eccentric. I've become accustomed to some pretty off the wall things, and I'll be happy to assist you if a particular ritual or demonstration requires. I would like you to involve me as much as possible, and any physical or visual demonstrations you can manage would be also very helpful. Detail is always a plus in a paper like this." 

"Uh...my, I mean, our names - Constable Turnbull's and my own - they wouldn't be mentioned in this paper, would they." 

He really was acting oddly. Most of her subjects and assistants were eager to be listed. "Not if you don't want it." 

"If possible, I would like to be excluded." He held open the door to the Queen's bedroom, gesturing her inside. "If you would kindly wait a moment, Constable Turnbull and myself will be with you as soon as possible." 

"No problem." Stepping into the room, she looked around appreciatively. The room was pleasingly decorated and clean, though an odd setting perhaps for an official interview. Ah, well, she had done stranger things before, in far stranger places. This room of dark, carved woods, crystal and brass light fixtures, and pristine white bedspread was no problem at all compared to a humid Amazon hut or smoke-filled adobe hut. 

Sitting down on the bed, she bounced a little. Nice mattress, she'd probably like sitting here for things, rather than one of the chairs or the footstool at the end of the bed. Sweeping her hair back from her eyes, she kicked off her shoes. This would definitely be one of her better assignments. Even if Constable Turnbull turned out to be an absolute canine, she'd get to stare at Constable Fraser, and she had certainly seen worse than THAT specimen of masculinity. 

The sound of the door opening caught her attention, and she looked up, smiling. That hadn't taken very long at all. "Ah, Consta...ah....oh." 

Maybe this wasn't going to be as straightforward as she had thought. True enough, Constable Fraser and another man who must be Turnbull were standing in the doorway, apparently ready to do...something. They were also stark naked. 

Catt couldn't keep her eyes from wandering over the two men. Fraser was quite like she had imagined, solid and strong, with a body that was every bit as beautiful as his face. The muscles on both men were well formed, clearly defined and sculpted, yet not bulging or pumped. Fraser's body was smooth as arctic ice, the dark hair limited to a small patch over his groin and the closely cropped curls atop his head. She decided that genetics probably had very little to do with this man...he was certainly some ancient Greek sculpture brought to life. 

Turnbull's hair was a sandy blonde, standing up slightly in soft spikes on his head and dusted in light curls across his chest. He was also taller than Fraser, standing a good bit over six feet, broad shouldered yet lankier than the other Mountie. He also had the largest hands she had ever seen, and verified what she had thought was always an old wives tale. A man's hands were directly related in size to their penis. 

Forcing her eyes back to their faces, she cleared her throat. "Gentlemen...I see you're...here..." *And planning to do WHAT?!!* she thought. 

Without saying a word, the two Mounties stepped into the bedroom, closing the door. She took a deep breath. Of all the rituals she had participated in, this had to be a new one. Catt wondered for a moment if they were planning to rape her, but as she looked into their eyes, she realized that wasn't the case. Sex was a possibility, or perhaps simply a nude ritual, and she reflected that compared to drinking the blood of a slaughtered albino piglet, this was nothing. Not to mention that it wouldn't exactly be a hardship to...get involved with these two stunning individuals. 

Taking a deep breath, she smiled slightly, seductively, her fingers going to the collar of her blouse. Quickly, not giving herself time to change her mind, she unbuttoned the blouse and slipped it off. Her skirt followed, pooling in a soft cloud of grayish tweed around her feet. Then she paused, standing before them in only her slip and pantyhose. Were they still interested? 

Oh, yes, they were very interested. In fact, it looked as though the 'Sub-Constables' in the room were also getting rather interested in the proceedings. She tilted her head, smiling. "So...what are you guys here for?" 

The men looked at each other, then back at her. "Research assistance, ma'am," Fraser said, "those were our orders." 

Reaching out, she ran a hand over the taller Mountie's shoulder, letting her fingertips trail down his chest. He shivered at the touch, his nipples hardening at the mixed stimulus of her hands and the cool air conditioning. Catt smiled. "I don't want you to disobey orders, gentlemen. So...who's first?" 

Fraser tilted his head, the blue eyes inquisitive. "I thought you said we were both to...?" His voice trailed off and he made a vague hand motion, clearly too shy to say the obvious. 

Catt looked into Fraser's eyes, then Turnbull's, and she felt her stomach sink as she realized that she was dealing with a definite breakdown in communication somewhere here. These men clearly thought they had been ordered into having sex with her as part of her research. She opened her mouth to correct them, then closed it again. It had been a while since she'd really had a good time in bed, and she did carry Lucky13's in her purse just in case, so that wasn't a problem...so why not? 

Not to mention that she'd have to be insane to turn down the prospect of two hunks like this...and at the same time, no less! 

Lowering her eyelashes seductively, she put one hand on her hip, her voice breathy as she shrugged her shoulders, causing the thin straps of her slip to fall. "I did say that." 

There was a slight pause, then Turnbull took the initiative. He stepped forward, placing one hand on her face, the large, strong fingers covering her face almost completely, the heel of his hand beneath her chin, the tips of his fingers mussing her hair. She almost closed her eyes, but left them open. Unlike Fraser, she hadn't had time to study him before, and she wanted to get a good idea of what she was kissing. 

What she was kissing was another example of Canada's finest. While not as classically beautiful as Fraser, this Mountie was genuinely handsome. He had a strong jaw that dominated features that were masculine and proportionate in a way that was both rugged and boyishly endearing at the same time. He seemed sweet and hesitant as his stormy blue-gray eyes looked into hers, but when their lips touched, she realized that there was skill behind the shyness. 

Her hands went around his neck, and she began to kiss him fiercely. He was too much the gentleman to thrust his tongue into her mouth, so she pushed her own into his, assuring him wordlessly that she was in the mood to be passionate. Their tongues pushed together, and he tasted like mulled cider on a winter's night, hot and spicy and rich. Lips crushed together, an amalgam of teeth and tongues and lips and mouths so intensely twined that neither could identify whether the smoothness of teeth they felt was their own or the others, whether they were in their own mouth, the others, or somewhere in between. 

Even as she was swept away in the kiss with Turnbull, Catt suddenly remembered Fraser. She felt his firm hands behind her, sweeping her hair to the side, then gently but firmly kneading the muscles of her neck. Her head lolled back into his hands, riding between his pressure from behind and Turnbull's from the front. Then she felt his lips, only a light brush at first, then little nips and kisses. Across the nape of her neck, around to the line of her jaw, up to nibble an earlobe as his hands slowly began to wander down her shoulders. 

She wasn't sure if he moved her arms or if she did, but the straps were soon off her arms all together, releasing the thin silk of the slip. The only thing that held it up now was the curve of her breasts against the cups that were sewn into the lingerie, and at the lightest brushing of Fraser's fingers against the soft fabric, that flimsy support slipped away. It slid down her body with a faint whisper, pooling at her feet and leaving her naked from the waist up. 

In a remarkable example of unspoken teamwork, Turnbull's hands moved from her face down her back, kneading and massaging much as Fraser had been as their mouths continued to plunder one another. Meanwhile, Fraser's hands came around her in an embrace, his fingertips lightly skimming her chest. Those fingers held just the slightest bit of weathered roughness to them, but the delicacy of his touch made it a sensation of delicious stimulation rather than harsh abrasion. 

Using only the very tips of his fingers, he traced the upper line of her collarbones, then the curve of her neck, then back down to skim a line just below her collarbones. It was almost ticklish, but just a tad too firm for that. Now he was touching her with the pads of his fingers, still drawing back and forth, back and forth, each time a bit lower from her collarbones like a farmer plowing a field. She wanted to grab his hands, pull them to the breasts that ached to be touched, but she let him prolong this delicious torture. 

Finally, his hands arrived at her breasts, and he slid his palms below them, cradling and cupping them almost as her slip had. Her nipples strained to be touched, but he simply held her breasts, massaging and kneading ever so slightly, bringing her level of stimulation to near-desperation. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts forward into his hands, and the stiffened peaks of her nipples brushed against the light coating of curls across Turnbull's chest, the feather touch like a hot brand of sensation that shot through her. She moaned into Turnbull's mouth, a moan that changed to a gasp as Fraser's fingertips finally drew a light circle around her aureole. 

Fraser's fingers made one more circle around the engorged buds, then his hands withdrew from her breasts, slipping back and away from her. She cried out at the abandonment, the frustration rising further still as the sweet hot pressure of Turnbull's mouth on hers also slowly drew away. To hell with concerns about wanting to do this, she was about ready to geld them both if they didn't get right back to exactly what they had been doing. 

Her coming protest was cut short as a pair of strong arms wrapped beneath her back and her knees, scooping her off the floor like a princess being carried down from a castle tower. Catt looked dreamily into Fraser's beautiful blue eyes as he carried her the two short steps to the Queen's bed, laying her down in the middle of the pristine white sheets as though she were a priceless work of art. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Turnbull fetching something from a bedside table, and she laughed as he lay them beside her on the bed, climbing up to join she and Fraser. Condoms. Lucky13's, to be exact. Her voice was a sensual purr as she brushed her hand through Fraser's dark hair. "You overgrown Boy Scouts really do believe in being prepared." 

The blue eyes above her were dark with desire. "Yes, ma'am." 

She tapped the end of one finger against his nose reproachfully, pursing her lips into a sultry pout. "Ma'am? I can't believe this...we're getting ready to have sex, and you're calling me ma'am!" 

He looked at Turnbull, blushing. "My apologies..." 

"Tracy." She cupped his chin in her hand. "And you?" 

"Ben." Nodding, Tracy pondered the name. Strong, simple, solidly masculine, yet traditional and gentle. Perfectly suited to this man. She looked to the other Mountie. 

"What about Studly Do-Right number two?" 

Turnbull reached as if to doff his hat, then realized that he was wearing neither his hat nor any other stitch of clothing. "Rennie, ma'am...I mean, Tracy." Oddly, he looked down only at her name, seemingly shyer about that than about what they were about to do. 

One hand still cradled Ben's face, but her other reached out, stroking Rennie's bicep. "Well....?" 

Ben answered her with a kiss that while every bit as deep and sensual and passionate as Rennie's had been, was at the same time completely different. He tasted almost cool, as though where the sensation of warm cider had been with the other, here was a mountain lake, a winter's walk hand in hand through the snow. Not at all unpleasant. 

She thrust her tongue hard against his experimentally, wondering how this gentle man would respond. He responded by intensifying the kiss a bit, but not to the degree she had, and she realized that he wouldn't hurt her, even if she asked him to. That reassurance allowed her to feel completely safe, even being held in the arms of one strong Canadian, with another slowly rolling her pantyhose down her legs. 

Well, all right, more than safe. Aroused as hell. 

Moaning softly, Tracy gave a quick prayer of thanks to whatever god or gods had let her get into this situation. Ben's warm, solid body was pressed against hers, her erect nipples brushing the satiny smoothness of his chest. He was kneeling, straddling her, his erect penis standing at full attention only centimeters from her stomach. At the same time, she could feel Turnbull lower down, his large hands smoothing down her legs as the thin nylon of her pantyhose was rolled away, his hot mouth giving attentions to every millimeter of newly exposed flesh. 

Ben's mouth slowly disengaged from hers, working it's way in a sequence of delicate nips, licks, and kisses down her throat. His tongue probed the shallow hollow above her collarbone, following it from one shoulder to the other, then back down the middle. She sighed deeply, twining her fingers in his hair, feeling the dark curls begin to dampen with the sweat that had formed a light sheen over his sculpted body. That talented tongue began to wander further downward, tracing the path his fingertips had previously taken. 

The pantyhose were gone now, her body fully exposed to them. Rennie seemed to stop a long moment to relish the view before him, then to her surprise, he took one of her feet in his hands and began to knead, stroking with his fingers and pressing his thumbs into the sole of her foot. It surprised her at first, then she released herself to the massage, surprised at how anyone could make feet seem so erotic. It was as though every motion, every deep pressure there sent rockets of sensation up her legs...and between them. 

A few drops of her own sweat had beaded in the valley between her breasts, and Ben's tongue found them there, eagerly lapping them away. His hands pressed her breasts together in towards his face, and they moved in a slow, circular massaging motion against the outsides of her breasts as his tongue slipped in, out, and around her newly-deepened cleavage. As if by accident, he allowed his thumbs to brush across her nipples, and she gasped, her back arching at the sudden sensitivity. 

Rennie was on the other foot now, only this time, his hands seemed to be wandering up to her ankle and calf, occasionally even smoothing up to her knees before going back down again. This was torture, oh such sweet torture. One beautiful man at her breasts, one at her legs, and both completely ignoring the burgeoning heat at her center. "Oh, please," she begged, "please...more...oh yes..." 

Pleased by her reaction, Ben's thumbs brushed over her nipples once again, and she let out a sound very much like a growl. It began low in her chest, but when his mouth trailed along and up the inner curve of her breast, then the tip of his tongue flicked one nipple as he pinched the other...well, the growl grew a good bit louder. Her hands tightened almost convulsively on the bedsheets, and her back arched further, forcing her breasts further into his mouth. Licking, lightly nipping, occasionally even suckling like a babe, he lavished oral attention on her left breast as he skillfully manipulated her right with his hands. 

What was left of her mind was torn between that activity and what she could feel from Rennie. He had abandoned her feet, kissing and kneading his way slowly up to her inner thighs. They were slick with her arousal, and she shuddered as he dipped one finger near her labia, not quite touching her, but collecting the hot liquid and using it almost as a massage oil. Instinctively, she spread her legs wide, offering her hungering center to him. With a self control that astonished her, he ignored the proffered sex, concentrating entirely on her inner thighs, though occasionally a 'stray' brush of contact would touch the edges of her labia...with electrifying effect. 

Ben had changed breasts now, his movements faster, more insistent. She grinned wickedly, knowing she was having an effect on these men as well. "Yes," Tracy hissed, "come on...faster...oohhh..." His hands were beneath her now, pulling her to him as his mouth dipped below her breasts, leaving a trail of white-hot kisses and licks down her stomach, swirling his tongue in her navel, and pausing torturously over the small nest of hair that marked the gateway to her femininity. 

In another display of the precision teamwork for which the RCMP is famous, Ben slid slowly down to kneel between her legs, even as Rennie came up to occupy his fellow officer's previous position. It was clear that they did not intend to leave any part of her anatomy unattended. 

Rennie leaned low over her, his swollen arousal pressing enticingly into her stomach as his mouth suckled and pulled at each erect nipple. Her hands wandered down, and she was rewarded with a low groan from the big Constable as they found his erection, smoothing and exploring along the engorged length with her fingertips. She cradled his balls in her hands, rolling and massaging the hot, soft sac, watching through a wicked haze of pleasure as that 'innocent' face took on a look of feral passion. 

Her own groans of pleasure were not long in coming, as it seemed the waiting game was over. That tongue which had worked such magic on her breasts proved to be equally skilled no matter where it worked. It drew along the edges of her labia, and she trembled with expectancy, her legs going wider to press into the mattress. Gently, he spread her now-dripping folds with his fingers, his tongue probing in and around the newly-revealed area to taste and to inflame. When it slipped almost accidentally into her vagina, her actions on Rennie's penis speeded up dramatically, causing him in turn to increase his motions upon her breasts with his hands, and upon her lips where his own had returned. A very equitable system of reciprocity. 

That nimble, talented tongue touched her clit, his fingers moving lightly up and down her labia, and she bucked violently, shocked at the level of sensation her gradually-teased organ had built up to. Her hips thrust up to meet Ben's mouth, and she moved them slowly, intensifying his work to nearly unbearable heights. His lips had closed over the swollen pearl, lightly sucking and pulling, occasionally even letting his teeth brush against it's hyper-sensitive surface. She felt the shock waves of an impending orgasm begin to build in the pit of her stomach, and she barely managed to gasp out her wishes. 

"In...oh...oh...in me...please..." Her words were low and throaty, animal almost. Ben's nearly-magical tongue continued it's exploration for a few more moments, then he pulled away, and she literally screamed with animal frustration, despite Rennie's continued devotion. It was only when she heard the sound of a foil packet tearing that she realized what he was doing. 

Galvanized with urgency, her hand lashed out, grabbing another of the coins from the bed beside them. With nearly fumbling, hurried motions, she savagely ripped open the condom, rolling it onto Rennie's straining penis. If possible, the already engorged organ grew larger, and she could see the first drops of pre-cum on the tip beneath the latex. Grabbing his hips, she pulled them towards her, taking his length into her mouth. 

Even as she did so, she felt Ben's hands on her hips, his own considerable endowment gently probing her open, welcoming sex. He didn't simply thrust it into her like the other lovers she had been taken by, but stroked the organ up and down her sensitive folds first, as though exploring for a secret, delicate treasure. One of his hands continued to balance him on her hips, but his other returned to her clit, pinching and rolling it between his fingertips as he smoothly slid into her. 

Her body was roiling with sensation now, and she licked and sucked at Rennie's penis almost desperately, attempting to mirror on him the incredible heat and convulsive pleasure she was feeling herself. Even through the strong latex of the Lucky13, she was able to feel every detail. The fierce throbbing of the swollen vein that ran the underside of his penis, communicating his passion in a primal morse code. The tremors that shook his large, solid body, his hips moving his length in and out of her mouth slowly, rhythmically, but without hurting or pounding. 

While her tongue swept around Rennie's penis, her mouth massaging and sucking at his arousal, her other lips were shuddering in pleasure. Her innermost muscles were seized by a paroxysm of passionate tremors as Ben moved in and out of her. His strokes were slow at first, then slowly the rhythm increased, thrusting in and out of her with a tempo that was urgent, knowledgeable of the plateau they were nearing, yet still not painful, not rushed. 

Finally, the motions of his hand upon her clit, the fullness of him and the friction against her vaginal walls, and the hot, quivering heaviness that filled her mouth came together in a tidal wave that swept over her body and mind. All conscious thought fled as she rode the crest of a mind-numbingly intense orgasm that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, convulsing her body and tearing shrieks of animal pleasure from the corners of her soul. She could hear color, see sound, feel tastes and smell feelings. The universe was all inside her, and she was exploding out to meet the universe. 

At the very edge of her awareness, she could hear similar sounds from both men, as she felt their hard, muscular bodies tremble with their own passionate climaxes, the protective condoms filling with twin bursts of cum. Somehow, almost impossibly, their own pleasure drove her higher still, until the pleasure that had been rocketing upward towards the stratosphere suddenly burst into space, leaving only blackness and weightlessness. 

She didn't know how long she was in that state, more or less completely incapacitated by the strength of her passion. When she finally did float dreamily back to earth, she found that both Mounties had withdrawn from her, the spent condoms removed and lying in RCMP-neat packages in the trash can. They lay to either side of her on the once-pristine white bedspread. Now it was rumpled and dampened with great spots of sweat and with the juices that she had produced in her excitement. 

Remarkably, they were still awake, though they seemed as boneless as she felt, their eyes - those two stunningly varied shades of blue - almost glassy as they looked at her like adoring puppies. Ben's hand still moved smoothly back and forth over her breast, Rennie's still smoothing her thigh, and she took the hands in each of hers, bringing them to her mouth and kissing them lightly. 

It was time to tell them, she decided, time to come clean with this whole misunderstanding. She knew that she really should have done it sooner, but damn was she glad she hadn't. "Guys," she whispered, "I'm not a sex researcher." 

This seemed to take a moment to sink in, and Ben's baby blues were the first to widen in horror. Rennie just seemed speechless. "You mean...we had the wrong...Oooohh dear." 

She laughed. "No, no! It's just...I'm a sects researcher. S-E-C-T-S. Groups, divisions. I'm researching the similarities between occupational sects and cultures such as the RCMP, the army, or doctors, with religious sects. Regimented diet, behavior, customs, rituals..." 

Rennie's face had turned decidedly pale. "Then you were not here to..." 

Tracy smiled contentedly. "Not at first. But you've helped me anyway." 

"H...h...how?" It was clear from the look in his eyes that visions of rape Court Martials were dancing in Ben's head, and she cupped his chin in her hand, drawing his face near so that his eyes looked directly into hers. 

"The Royal Canadian Mounted Police believe in kindness, preparedness, self-sacrifice, and gentlemanly behavior. I interviewed two of their officers..." she gave a wicked grin, "...interviewed them in depth, I would say, and I was happy to find that they are everything that folklore presents them to be. Though some of them need their ears checked." She tweaked Rennie's ear playfully, prompting a sheepish grin. 

Both men seemed to relax, and she snuggled between them, feeling their warm, masculine heat, breathing in sweat and the afterglow of mingled male and female arousal. She closed her eyes as she felt the solid heaviness of Ben's arm across her stomach. "Then you aren't angry?" he whispered. 

Without opening her eyes, she stroked her fingers languidly over his hand. "Not at all," she sighed, "in fact, I think it should be policy...handsome, considerate, passionate RCMP officers should never have their ears checked." 

**THE END**


End file.
